


Guiding Lights

by Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)



Series: The Pacemakers [38]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Accidents, Affection, Alien Culture, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bad Cooking, Banter, Determination, Dysfunctional Relationships, Family Dynamics, Father's Day, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Mush, Judgment, Medical Trauma, Memorials, Multi, Past Character Death, Permanent Injury, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Pre-Earth Transformers, Public Humiliation, Self-Esteem Issues, Teasing, Traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-15 21:55:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11240043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor
Summary: Celebrating sires is an important tradition in Culumex. Brawn and his household may try to celebrate it conventionally, but for each of them it always turns out a little different.





	Guiding Lights

“Sorry, Brawn, but I can’t stay. Carrier won’t want me to be late; I need to start setting up for Sire!”

“Okay, I’ll see you later, Nanobyte!” Brawn called with a parting wave to his friend as she sprinted away. He paused, lowering his hand just slightly as she disappeared into the distance, and then glanced around. The play area was empty now, leaving him alone, and while he was sorely tempted to stay and have it all to himself, he knew he should be just as occupied as Nano and his other friends were.

It was a tradition that when their sires’ holiday came around, the sparklings would help their carriers make a special meal to celebrate him. Even the sparklings who had lost their sires weren’t exempt; they continued to dutifully make them as tribute to the mechs they once were. Thus Brawn spun around, pushing play out of his mind as he hurried home.

As soon as he skidded through the front door, strong hands caught him around the waist and threw him upward, jarring a squeal of surprise and delight out of him. If any of his friends were here, he would be embarrassed by the high-pitched noise, but he was too dizzy as he made the return landing to familiar arms to think any more of it.

“Now this is a sorry sight, isn’t it?” Barrage rumbled as he held Brawn out in front of him, looking him up and down critically. “All I can think about while I’m at work is the lovely meal I’m going to be treated to and then when I come home, what do I find? I find that my mechling has forgotten all about it! He’s far away, playing with his friends without a second thought of his poor sire.”

“I—I didn’t forget!” Brawn protested, worry flickering through him at the strain in his sire’s face. “I thought—you were supposed to be home in a joor—”

“Ahh, I’m just teasing,” Barrage assured him, his scarred features lighting up with a telling grin as he lifted Brawn and propped him on one broad shoulder. “Your carrier said you did more than enough to help with the shopping.”

“And may I say that our little bot’s help was to make sure your meal is comprised of sweets!” Slipshot put in warmly as she strode out of the kitchen and approached.

Barrage’s grin widened as he came to meet her halfway, lifting her into a hug with the same ease he had his mechling. Brawn made a half-stifled noise of disgust as he watched his creators nuzzle each other and then Barrage glanced up at him with raised eyebrows, swinging him down abruptly so he was pinned under one arm.

“Hey, you shouldn’t be judging! You may very well have a femme or a pace-mate you’ll want to be affectionate with in the future, little one.”

“Don’t call me that!” Brawn complained, kicking his feet to no avail. “I’m _not_ a little one!”

Barrage simply laughed and shook his helm. “Whatever you say. Let’s go enjoy those sweets, shall we?”

—

“Now, sweetspark, you remember what I’ve told you, right?” Waver questioned, a bit too much of her anxiety showing in her voice.

Huffer nodded solemnly. He had heard his carrier’s warning every time this morning rolled around for the last decavorn, so he provided the familiar words for her. “Don’t crowd him, don’t get overexcited, don’t talk too loud, and don’t spill the energon.” So saying, he tightened his grip on the precious energon cube his carrier had provided.

Waver nodded approvingly, her optics softening as she brushed her fingers over her mechling’s left cheek. “That’s right. Now just be careful and gentle and I’m sure he’ll love it.”

“Okay…” Unsure of how else to respond to that, Huffer turned and shuffled cautiously toward his creators’ berthroom.

The room was dim and a little bit stuffy with the smell of coolant and medical sealant, but Huffer had long since become used to it and paid it no mind, his optics flickering from the energon cube to what he could see of his sire as he crept closer. He could feel his carrier following at a watchful distance and his spark sank a little, but he couldn’t really blame her. That was entirely normal too.

He came to a stop next to the nightstand, standing on the tips of his struts so he could push the energon cube onto the edge without it tipping. Afterward he peeked over the berth’s edge at his sire’s prone form. Did Ethic know he was there? Unable to resist, he stretched as far as he could and brushed tiny fingers against his sire’s arm in greeting before sinking back down.

“I brought you your energon, Sire…It’s medium-grade instead of medical-grade and I—I think you’ll really like it,” he murmured, sniffling and wiping his hands furiously over his wet optics. Again, as he did every orn of every vorn, Huffer wished the crippling accident at his sire’s work had happened to someone else, _anyone_ else.

Scrubbing away tears of her own, Waver picked him up then and helped him pour the energon into an IV feed, one of the many that Ethic was attached to. Instead of returning him to the floor, however, as he had expected, his carrier set him on the berth next to his sire. Huffer stared at her with wide optics and she waved a hand meaningfully, despondently.

With that permission, Huffer twisted around so he could look his sire in the face. It was rare that he had the opportunity to and he wasn’t going to let it be messy and blurred while he was crying, so he blinked hard. Ethic looked back at him, optics dim, but his gaze didn’t follow Huffer’s movements as he shifted low and forward, maneuvering himself under Ethic’s arm and pressing his face into his side.

It may have been his imagination, but after a few moments Huffer thought he felt his sire’s hand shift closer to his back, keeping him close.

—

As soon as his systems came fully online, Gears leapt out of his berth, scrambling down the hall and imagining himself flying so fast that his sire would never be able to catch him. He could see that his creators’ door was shut, so Switch must still be recharging. His kind manager had graciously given him the orn off so that he could be at home with his family, which Gears and Gadget appreciated more than he would ever know.

Even if his sire often tended to annoy him with all of the pranks he pulled, Gears missed him quite a bit when he was busy at work and he wasn’t about to let this perfect, free morning go to waste. It was one of those special orns that Gears felt he could show his sire everything he could do and have his full attention without the help of a practical joke.

His plan was to put on a practical joke of his own and it was going to be the best joke Switch had _ever_ seen—much better and more fun than his!

After some very secretive planning, Gears had found out that Switch kept many of his pranking tools securely locked in the storage unit outside, not far from their home. He had used every possible method to convince his carrier to give him the keycard for it and in the end, she had finally fallen for the story that one of his favorite toys had gotten locked in there the last time they had opened it. He still wasn’t sure why she had smiled so widely when she was handing him the card, but in the end he had gotten what he wanted, so he didn’t think about it.

Gadget looked up when he came out into the family room. “Oh! Where are you going, sweet? Remember that you need to help me make your sire’s meal.”

“I’m going outside to get my toy!” Gears reminded her patiently. He was a bit surprised when her smile fell into a concerned expression and she peered toward the closest window.

“Oh,” she repeated, grimmer than before. “I’m sorry, Gears, but your toy will need to wait until tomorrow. We’re due for an acid rainstorm this morning and you shouldn’t go outside!”

Blinking against the sunlight streaming through the window, Gears bolted toward the door as he assured her, “I’ll be really quick, I promise!” All he needed was to gather the supplies and take them back to his room so he could get to work there, safe from the rain.

As soon as the door slid open, a torrent of lukewarm oil crashed down on him from above. He was too shocked by it to do anything but gasp and stand paralyzed in the entryway—at least until his sire started giggling from somewhere off to his left.

As soon as he registered it, Gears spun around and hollered accusingly, “Carrier, you _helped_ him!” Gadget offered a rather unsympathetic smile in return and Gears growled, stomping his foot into the growing puddle underneath him. Still laughing, Switch approached, kneeling and gripping Gears’ wet shoulders.

“Next time, try using retro-rats as your story,” he suggested. “It always worked for me.” When Gears didn’t offer any reply but an unforgiving pout, he tilted his helm with a placating smile. “How about we get you cleaned off and then you can share my special meal with me?”

For a short time, at least, Gears’ thoughts of sweet revenge went to the back of his mind.

—

Windcharger sighed deeply and smoothed down his plating as his carrier had showed him to do, glancing at his reflection in the wall paneling in the main hall. He thought he looked presentable enough…He hoped he did. He wanted to do his best for his sire tonight.

Even so, his hands were shaking as he took up the ornate gold tray holding his sire’s meal and squared his shoulders, striding with purpose toward the main dining room. He could hear the loud laughter and conversation of his sire’s friends inside and it only unnerved him further, but the minute nod from the nicest of his sire’s pace-mates steeled him enough that he felt he could find the courage to nudge the doors open with his foot and duck inside.  

The room was overly bright as its orb lamps and ceiling lights flashed against the polished walls and floor, forcing Windcharger to squint as he looked around. It was under a minute before he found his sire. Crossflare was sitting regally in his seat at the head of the table, smiling thinly and nodding to whatever his neighbor was saying to him.

Clearing his throat, Windcharger called out for him over the din; it took four tries for Crossflare to hear him, which he was tempted to sulk about.  This holiday was partially about him too, wasn’t it? The only reason Crossflare could say he was a sire was because of Windcharger, so he should pay more attention! These thoughts didn’t last long, as Crossflare rose from his seat and held up a hand for everyone to quiet down.

“Ah, Windcharger. You see, everyone? I knew my mechling would be punctual.” Once the murmurs of agreement died down, his sire added eagerly, “Now come on, Windcharger, do bring it down.”

As soon as Windcharger began skirting around the table to approach, Crossflare’s smile fell and he swept up a stern hand. Windcharger flinched as he felt the heavy weight of his sire’s augmentation keeping him still—no, pushing him back. “Not that way. You _know_ how my guests would like to see it.”

Swallowing hard, Windcharger nodded hurriedly, adding, “I know, I know, Sire” for good measure and repeating it until Crossflare’s magnetism eased off, allowing him to put the golden tray on the equally golden table.

Taking another healthy step away, he tensed, glancing around at all of the expectant guests and then lifting his own hands, optics narrowing in concentration as he pushed at the tray, sliding it inch by inch across the table. It seemed like the longer he pushed, the longer the table seemed. It didn’t seem to faze anyone watching, so he kept going, heat rising in all of his systems until he was panting and shaking with the effort. At last his carrier sighed, leaning across the table and sliding the tray the last few feet.

“He needs more practice and you know it, Crossflare,” she stated, earning a warning look from her sparkmate before he settled his gaze on Windcharger. The mechling’s heaving vents stilled under the weight of his stare, which felt even heavier than his magnetism. It followed him all the way to the door as he slunk back out to refuel on his own.

—

Skydive returned to his home to find the kitchen door firmly shut and his mechling nowhere to be found. That in and of itself wasn’t so odd—Cliffjumper was fairly adept at making basic meals, but he didn’t perform well under pressure. While some sparklings liked it when their sires watched their process, Cliffjumper only became flustered and exasperated. When that combination was made, it was only a matter of time before everyone he knew received a very clear reminder that he had certainly gotten his carrier’s temper.

While Overbright would have loved to help, ever since Cliffjumper was old enough to carry the supplies, he had stubbornly told them that he was going to do it alone. The first few vorns, the meals had been…hard to swallow… _exceptionally_ hard. At first little CJ didn’t seem to notice Skydive’s discomfort but when he finally did, Skydive braced himself for a blowup. It would only be because his mechling was frustrated with himself, not with anyone else, and he didn’t know how to express it better. He hadn’t at all been prepared for his mechling’s strangled, almost agonized sobs or his escape from the dining room to his berthroom. Neither of his creators had seen him again that night and as he left for work the next morning, Skydive had never felt guiltier.

Cliffjumper knew all of this better than his creators probably realized. His carrier had given him a talk about his confidence, telling him that he didn’t need to try so hard and that they never stopped believing in him and never would. Still, he was stubborn. Carrier was simply trying to be nice, so he would prove it to her. He intended to make sure this was something his sire would love and love until all of it was gone—and it was _going_ to happen, no matter what!

Once the witherite-wires were doused in mercury sauce, Cliffjumper ex-vented slowly and clambered up onto the counter, fumbling for the nearby blowtorch. Technically he wasn’t supposed to use this without one of his creators supervising, but this was a special occasion! Hopefully the meal would be good enough that they would forget to scold him.

Thus decided, he gripped the tray with one hand to keep it steady and flicked the torch on, heat washing over the wires. As he worked, he peered at them closely, making sure they weren’t going to burn, but he wasn’t expecting them to spark without warning. He jumped, the torch went askew, and the next thing he knew, he was on the floor, clutching his opposite hand and crying.

Skydive had picked him up before Cliffjumper even realized he was there, thrusting his burned hand under the icy cold oil from the nearby sink. “What were you thinking?!” he demanded as he did so.

Cliff sobbed wordlessly, pressing his face against his sire’s chest even though he knew he was in trouble. When Skydive repeated his question, he forced out, “I—I—I thought it wouldn’t be good if it wasn’t warm! I wanted you to like it!”

“Well, you could have been seriously hurt! You were using a blowtorch on _mercury_ sauce, Cliffjumper! Don’t ever do it again, do you understand?!”

“Yes, Sire…” Now that the burns on his hands had cooled, Cliffjumper fully expected Skydive to put him down and start listing all of his consequences. There were probably a lot.

Instead, he was simply pulled closer, his helm tucked under Skydive’s chin as he declared, “Nothing you do is going to make me love you less or more. I already love you as much as I possibly can, so…I’d be _perfectly_ happy with a meal you buy at the market.”

Cliffjumper perked up, blinking in disbelief and then, belatedly, in guilt. “I didn’t think of that,” he mumbled.

Skydive paused for a klik or two and then snorted lightly in amusement. “Clearly. So let’s get your little hand bandaged and then we’ll go out with your carrier, alright?”

“Okay…”

—

Bumblebee hadn’t visited Culumex since Cybertron and its cities had been restored and the Autobots had returned to live there again. Since he was only one of two pace-mates left, he hadn’t felt there was a reason to. He had moved into one of the Autobot bases, but he had always intended to come back at some point and this orn was as good a reason to as any.

He’d invited Cliffjumper to come with him, but he had refused. Bee was disappointed, but he understood—CJ just wasn’t ready for this yet. He wouldn’t think of it the same way Bumblebee did. He wouldn’t think of it with fondness or joy, only grief, so it wouldn’t have had the same meaning to him.

Now that there was a busy airway again, it took quite a while for him to board one of the bustling pods. The trek through the nearer sectors took him most of the orn, given that he stopped at several points when he saw something he recognized, so it was already evening when he came to the familiar site of his home…the pace’s home.

Unpacking the kit he had brought, Bumblebee set to work. He set out a golden tray, slightly battered but still gleaming, that Windcharger had dubbed a family heirloom. The instant witherite-wires cooked quickly but the energon was frozen, so it took some time to thaw. He did his best to liven up the prepackaged mercury sauce with some seasonings he had added to the kit, but he knew it would never compare to Huffer’s. It would just have to do. Garbage O’s were easy enough to find now, but Bee had a feeling it would be much harder to eat them. He poured them anyway, already imagining the scolding Gears would give him if he didn’t.

In the end, he looked at the humble meal and thought back on the mechs who raised him. Bee had no idea who had really sparked him and he had no interest in finding out anymore. He had only called one mech “Sire” and that was who he was here for.

Venting deeply, he took up his energon and lifted it in a little salute. He didn’t say anything to go with it, but the small gesture portrayed everything he _could_ say. As he sipped, he couldn’t help but smile. Brawn was sure to be appreciating this, wherever he was in the Allspark, and Bumblebee intended to keep doing it until they could share the meal in person.


End file.
